


The Payment

by BananaStickers



Series: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs (Alternate Universe - The Payment) [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Alternate Universe - The Payment, Anal Sex, Columbus Blue Jackets, David Savard (Background), Jack Johnson (Background), Jake Guentzel (Background), Language, M/M, Marc-Andre Fleury (Background), Phil Kessel (Background), Pittsburgh Penguins, Public Humiliation, Scott Hartnell (Background), Sergei Bobrovsky (Background), Spanking, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: In a very slightly AU-verse, the NHL has a playoff tradition that the players know as "The Payment."  Started as the NHL formed as a method of keeping players in check, it is a mechanism for revenge, earned by winning a playoff series.  Although used in a generally benign fashion in this day and age, the possibility is still open for worse.  And Sidney Crosby really does not like Brandon Dubinsky.  At all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ### Personal Note from the Author:
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. In my mid/late teens and early 20s, I wrote quite a lot of fic, almost all hockey RFP and almost always a bit on the darker side. I also used to RP hockey live over AOL Instant Messenger, if that dates me at all. (Is that still a thing? It should be.) Now, over 10 years later, this is my first foray back into fanfic. I'm still not sure if this will be a one-shot or my semi-triumphant return; that remains to be seen. I do play hockey myself, so am happy to answer any quirky or odd questions about playing the game from the community. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ### Notes on the Universe:
> 
> This is set in an Alternate Universe, close enough to ours that most wouldn't really consider it AU (there are no monsters, magic, or wolves) but a bit different nonetheless. A few notable differences:
> 
> Certain league rules and traditions, such as the one outlined here (The Payment) do not exist in our world, but do in this one.
> 
> Personalities and marital / children status are quite different here. There may be the occasional roster tweak or change in injury reports as well.
> 
> This universe has different cultural norms surrounding sex. Bisexuality is more prevalant albeit still a bit hidden, and sex crimes are not taken nearly as seriously (which says a lot, considering how shamefully we treat sex crimes in THIS universe). So, if you're ever reading something and think, "this would go right to the police, yeah?" Probably not here.
> 
> ### Disclaimer:
> 
> Now that we have established this is an alternate universe, ie not our own, we will go further and state this is a work of fiction and not intending to harm any person or entity. You should never judge or approach people in OUR universe for their actions in MY universe as they are completely separate. In short: don't sue me, bro.
> 
> #### Trigger Warnings:
> 
> If you see the word "rape" in the tags and are a little freaked out, luckily, this story is a bit choose-your-own-adventure. Chapters 1-3 can be read basically stand alone and are fairly mild, with some reluctant punishment in chapter 3. I could have easily ended it there, but instead it moves to chapter 4 which will be VERY GRAPHIC. Please don't continue past chapter 3 if you're unsure.
> 
> For this chapter (1), there will be mentions of rape culture.

Numb. Brandon Dubinsky is numb.

Not quite as numb as if it were a game 7 overtime loss. But any series ending game that you're on the wrong side of hurts. This was the Blue Jackets' year. Maybe not to win the Stanley Cup, but at least to win a goddamn playoff series. Their win streak, the chase for the President's trophy. The team really gelling, wiping away memories of all the bad seasons before it. Fans starting to show up in droves and be loud, so loud that his ears rang. The cannon booming again and again, 10 goal games. It was their year - but then it wasn't. The Penguins made sure of it.

Brandon vaguely remembered the handshake line. Tried to look sincere in his well-wishes and congratulations, but unsure if he was successful.

Coach Tortorella coming in to say a few season-ending words. Brandon had no idea what he said, couldn't repeat a lick of it if you paid him a million dollars.

The press, the media, wanting a quote of what went wrong and how do you feel and what will be next for you? He's still in most of his gear, but they are a pack of vultures in this most vulnerable time. For this, he goes on autopilot. The hockey cliches are familiar and he lets them fall from his mouth without much thought. He says the right things, he thinks. Nothing profound, short answers, and then the press is gone to grill Torts on what happened and the locker room is quiet again, just the ripping of Velcro as equipment is torn off.

Slowly, life begins again in the Blue Jackets' locker room. Guys are talking softly, even the occasional smirk or bark of laughter as jokes are told, most filthy, all at the Penguins' expense.

But Dubinsky is still numb, quiet. Don't they realize what's yet to come? Actually, he realizes with a start, most of the guys here don't know what's on its way. The Jackets are so young and inexperienced. For many, it's their first playoff series. He catches Scott Hartnell's eye - Scott looks as grim as he does, and they share an almost imperceptible nod. "Bird Dogg" is a playoff veteran, more than any of them, and he knows exactly what is coming, what tradition demands next. And, like Dubi, he has reason to be nervous.

Hockey is full of traditions - the aforementioned handshake line, the hat toss after 3 goals, not touching the Cup til you've won it. But there is another tradition that is to come, one that is not known outside of hockey circles. "The Payment", it's come to be known.

Nobody knows quite when it began or how it got started, only that it's quite old, formed before the NHL even became the NHL. The Payment is simply this: after a playoff series, the winning club's captain gets to select a player from the losing club. And, for a set period of time (currently sitting at three hours) the winners get to do whatever they want with that losing player.

Within limit, of course. No broken bones or permanent injuries. Everyone knows that the New Westminster Royals violated that rule in 1914 and nearly killed one of the Vancouver Millionaires. There's a reason only the most diehard fans ever heard of the New Westminster Royals; the team was disbanded and players barred from hockey, and their legacy buried forever.

The rule, tradition, whatever you want to call it, was created to help players police each other. Guys knew that if they were right cunts out on the ice during a series, and their team lost, they'd potentially need to answer for it after the series. And sure enough, through the Original Six era, The Payment required was almost always blood. Guys got the shit kicked out of them, but nothing injured, nothing permanent, and that was that, and they thought real long and hard about their actions on the ice next time they were out there.

Unless you were confident in winning the Cup, of course. There's a reason guys get so hyped for the playoffs, and it's not all just boyhood dreams of silver and championship. Avoiding The Payment was a damn good motivator as well. So the owners, while pretending to be disapproving, really love it just as much and allow it to continue. The Payment would not exist without the league's full cooperation, regardless of what they say. "Our hands are tied"...okay, Gary fucking Bettman, Brandon chuffed. I'm sure they are.

For that reason, it's not something the league or clubs would ever admit to the public. Officially, it does not exist, and there is a code of silence amongst players that nearly everybody keeps. But it's impossible to have as many players and people know about The Payment and keep it completely silent. The few players who have tried to go to the media, or to press charges for something, have been ridiculed, shunned and blocked from the NHL. Nobody will hire you if you talk, no matter how good you are. Still, it's an open secret amongst the press, and fans debate yearly whether it's true. Some think yes, some think no, some think it used to happen but it doesn't anymore.

Brandon supposed he could deal with getting his ass kicked, if that's all it was. But when the league expanded in 1967, The Payment switched from what was nearly exclusively a beat down to the worst humiliation that Brandon could think of : sex crimes. Now instead of getting kicked around, sometimes guys were being forced to blow the team captain in front of a jeering, screaming locker room. Or dragged into the showers and fucked. Something about that expansion flipped the switch on the league. You'd have thought the players would have been excited for additional teams, since it would potentially extend their playing career; skills could decline, but there'd still be a place for them with twice as many roster spots open. But no. From what Brandon knew, the guys back then were incensed that "lesser players", players that couldn't make the Original Six squads, were now on the same level they were. They didn't want to beat those guys up. They wanted to send a message that those guys were worthless. And what better way to do so than to shove your cock down your opponent's unwilling throat?

That all changed in the 1980s as the AIDS epidemic exploded. Good old fashioned beating the shit out of your losing player was back in high fashion, and sex dropped off a cliff. Everyone was too scared. But something else was emerging, and that was the "Gentleman's Payment". It's where you were put through something that WOULDN'T require therapy to forget later on (or, let's be real, Brandon thought - we're hockey players, so our therapy is more like drugs and alcohol, and lots of them). No, instead, maybe you were forced to clean the opponent's locker room. Or come to the captain's house, make and serve him dinner. Or even something as disgusting as sucking the captain's toes, post-game and pre-shower, but that's at least worlds better than getting your face smashed in or fucked.

Today, the Gentleman's Payment is the norm. With cell phones, social media, the Internet, It seems like everyone knows everyone else, or is at least a friend-of-a-friend. You gotta really consider the ramifications about shoving your dick in someone's mouth when there's a possibility of seeing them later at your buddy's wedding or training session or something.

The Blue Jackets had lost previously to the Penguins, two years ago. Just like now, Crosby was the captain and therefore the one deciding both the player and the punishment. He chose Jack Johnson; Brandon knew they were good buddies. Crosby had Jack strip down to his underwear while the entire team threw water balloons at him, hundreds of them. A good, solid Gentleman's Payment. Crosby seemed like too much of a prim and proper pussy to do much else besides that. Still, there's always the danger of the unknown that set Brandon's mouth a little dry. Sid hates him, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Trigger Warnings:
> 
> If you see the word "rape" in the tags and are a little freaked out, luckily, this story is a bit choose-your-own-adventure. Chapters 1-3 can be read basically stand alone and are fairly mild, with some reluctant punishment in chapter 3. I could have easily ended it there, but instead it moves to chapter 4 which will be VERY GRAPHIC. Please don't continue past chapter 3 if you're unsure.
> 
> For this chapter (2), there should be no trigger warnings.

Brandon was showered and nearly dressed when someone called captain Nick Foligno out to the hallway, and with a spike of adrenaline, Dubi realized it was Chris Kunitz. A Penguins alternate captain at the Blue Jackets door meant only one thing. They had come to collect.

After a few long moments, "Fliggy" returned to the locker room, expression unreadable. The room quieted down when he re-entered, everyone pausing from tying shoes and fidgeting with ties and fucking around on their phones. This was it. It could be anyone. It was like the fucking Hunger Games in here.

"The Penguins have come for The Payment," Foligno started, his voice cracking in the middle of it, visibly nerve-wracked. No shit, Brandon thought. Get _on_ with it, Fligs. With that expression, was it Fliggy himself that got picked? He looked so upset.

But no. "Dubi." The entire locker room shifted, faces turning towards him. He felt his cheeks flush and a lump travel down his throat until it sat hard in his stomach. Aw, shit.

There was an audible gasp from Jack Johnson, then a pause, and then a nervous laugh. "Dubi, you'll be fine," Jack smiled, but it was thin. "I know you and Sid have had your battles, but he's an awesome dude. Doing the right thing sort of guy. I dunno what he's got planned, and you're probably not going to have _fun_ , exactly, but it won't be a big deal."

"I bet he's going to piss on you," David Savard stated, to shouts of 'WHAT?!' and 'Gross!' "Yeah, I mean...it's humiliating, but it doesn't hurt you or anything, and I'll bet Sid is totally into piss. He's gotta have some weird fuckin' fetish underneath that persona."

Someone - Dubi wasn't sure who, because he was back to being numb - yelled, "Care to bet? 1000 bucks to you if he pees on - " but Nick interrupted with an uncharacteristic snarl.

"We are _not_ betting on this," he growled, and everyone shut up. "You think this is funny? Maybe you should think of your fucking teammate and what he's going through right now before you open your big fuckin' mouth." That WAS uncharacteristic of Fligs, who must be nervous as well. That thought didn't particularly make Dubi feel much better. "Come on, Dubi. We gotta - I mean...it's time to go. I'll walk you over."

So Brandon stood up, finished buckling his belt, and walked out. Dead man walking, he thought to himself, as each teammate he passed gave him a tap or a squeeze. Sergei Bobrovsky jumped up as he approached and engulfed him in a hug, muttering in Russian. Bob was nearly on the verge of tears - Dubi knew that he blamed himself for this series loss, and now to see his teammate being taken away...

"We didn't give you much fuckin' help, Bob. Don't do this to yourself." Inexplicably, at a time like this, Brandon found himself comforting Bob. "I'll be fine."

"We gotta go," Nick called from the hallway, sounding stressed, so Dubi extracted himself from Bob's grip and gave him a pat on the chest, then followed Nick down through the Pittsburgh arena. They stopped outside a room with a giant Penguin emblem - the enemy's locker room. Nick inhaled sharply and knocked on the door. Kunitz poked his head out and smirked.

"Thought you might have gotten lost," he grinned. "Come in."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Trigger Warnings:
> 
> For this chapter (3), there is physical punishment that gives no permanent injuries. The receiver is unhappy about it but willing to go along with it.

Through the door stood Crosby, in a suit, with a gracious smile on his face. It relaxed Brandon, a bit - he looked ever the team captain, ready for a presser or a visit to a children's hospital. He looked non-threatening, and walked up to Nick with his arm outstretched.

"Nick," Crosby nodded, shaking the other captain's hand firmly. "I know this is a tough duty. Thank you for bringing him over."

Foligno nodded, opened his mouth to speak - then shut it. One of the traditions around The Payment was that you don't beg for mercy for your teammate, you don't call in a favor or ask for special treatment. He has earned what he has earned. Besides, Crosby's demeanor had visibly relaxed Fligs, as well. He seemed to be feeling a lot better about the whole thing, so he simply turned to Dubi and gave him a quick hug. "You'll be good," he whispered, and then he was gone.

Dubinsky noticed now that the rest of the Pittsburgh Penguins, also in suits, were peering out from the main part of the locker room, a couple steps in from the hallway they were currently in. Crosby smiled at him - still a very team-captain sort of smile - and gestured towards the room. "After you."

Seeing no other choice, Brandon walked towards the room, slowly and cautiously. As he was exiting the hallway, he became aware of a presence that was hidden behind the wall, and before he knew it he was being thrown to the floor, skidding a few feet from the Penguins logo in the center of the rug, on his hands and knees now. The room laughed, with a few whoops thrown in. He glanced back and saw Evgeni Malkin standing over him with a grin on his face. And in his hand - 

Malkin slapped a large, wooden paddle against his other hand. Oh, hell, it even had the Penguins logo cut out of the center. So this is what it would be? Spanking?

Humiliating for sure. But he could get through this and be no worse for wear, he supposed. He crinkled his nose at the thought, and saw Malkin bark a laugh at his expression.

"Somebody has been a bad boy!" Crosby crowed, tone light, while the rest of the room clapped and wolf-whistled. "I don't know how the Jackets punish bad boys, but here, we're a little old school. You gotta learn, Brandon." Here, Sid's demeanor shifted slightly, his smile hardening. "You gotta learn that it's not cool, real not fucking cool, to try and injure people. Slew foots and cross checks to the neck and - you know what you did, man. I won't list it out. Hopefully when you can't sit down tomorrow, you'll think about all that shit you did and you won't be so eager to do it again. Now...take your pants off."

"Wha - ...what?" Brandon jerked his head up where he'd been staring morosely at the floor, not sure if he'd heard the Penguins captain correctly.

"We spank bare ass!" Geno crowed behind him, giving him a nudge with his toe. "Pants off!"

Brandon just paused, his mind racing. Oh, no. He really did not want to remove any articles of clothing. How could he manage to keep his pants on? What could he say that would convince - 

That train of thought was cut off by a hard, thick body slamming him to the floor and holding him there. "Don't struggle," a voice hissed in his ear, and he recognized Hornqvist's voice. More hands grabbed at his belt, untucking his shirt, zipping his pants down. He disobeyed the voice and he struggled. He struggled like hell, but the pants came down anyway, puddling at his dress shoes. And then he howled as the first smack of the paddle hit his now-bare ass, the sudden sting bringing tears to his eyes.

Hornqvist was still on top of him. "This will go much better if I can let you go. I will stand up now. You stay the fuck down."

Brandon paused, not saying anything, so Patric gave him a short jab in the ribs that brought an _"oof"_ and a frantic nodding in agreement from Dubinsky. Finally, he stood up and off.

Malkin - apparently the perpetrator of that first, heavy smack - handed the paddle over to Crosby, who nodded. But instead of the captain giving his own justice, he started calling names, like he was handing out the goddamn Stanley Cup. "Kuni, you get to go next. Dubinsky - I want you on all fours, at all times. Everyone gets one smack and you will say thank you after it's done or they will paddle you again until you get it right. Do you understand?"

His hissed out a yes, hoping that his face properly expressed how much he fucking hated this team and their captain. And, he hoped they weren't all like Malkin's shot; he wasn't sure if he could take that many smacks, that hard.

Kunitz stepped up to the plate and whacked Dubinsky on the ass with the paddle, as hard as he could. Brandon bit back a cry - this one stung, but nothing like Malkin's smack. Thank god. And: "thank you," he muttered, quietly, head hanging down.

"Do it again," he heard a voice say, and then he yelped as another smack, unexpected, came across again. In a second Crosby was kneeling down, forcing Dubinsky's head up to look at him.

"You will say THANK YOU, loud and proud, for the room to hear, or you will get smacked _again_. So, let's hear it! What do you say?"

Brandon took a deep breath, eyes flashing with fury. "Thank you!"

"Better." Crosby smirked, stood, looked around the room. "Horny, my man, you are up."

And so it went. Sometimes the smacks were tentative, almost soft - Jake Guentzel and Marc-Andre Fleury, who was also giggling the whole time. Sometimes they were not. Phil Kessel stepped up and elicited a howl from Brandon, who grit his teeth. He was determined not to let these fucking Penguins hear him squeal and was trying to stay as silent as possible, minus his required 'appreciation', but he couldn't help the yell at Phil's shot, which was just as wicked off-ice as on. "Thank you," he snarled, and he heard Phil behind him make a strange noise, interested, almost...aroused? Then Phil trailed a finger gently down the red, flaming skin of Brandon's ass. Dubi whimpered, the sensation of a soft hand being so different from the unyielding wood of the paddle, and even soft as the touch was, it hurt, oh it hurt. Phil made another sound at Dubi's whimper, almost a guttural growl, this time definitely sounding aroused, and Dubinsky made a mental note of it. That sick fuck. He'd tell everyone.

Finally - fucking _finally_ \- the last Penguin, Crosby himself, stepped up and gave him what was actually a rather mild smack, and a little pat on the ass to go with it, to which the locker room erupted in laughter. Dubinsky just sagged to the floor. The rage that had burned his belly, indignant through the first few smacks, had faded to humiliation and relief that it was finally fucking over. He just wanted to be gone. He just never wanted to see this fucking team again, or at least not for the next few months.

"Stay down," Crosby told him, and then - "Great series, everyone. We did a lot of things right, and..."

Was Crosby giving the team the goddamn post-series pep talk here? Now? While his fallen adversary was half naked and on the floor beneath him? Jack Johnson was wrong. Crosby was not a great guy. He was ruthless.

Finally, the pep talk was over, guys were cheering and laughing. Brandon vaguely heard Crosby ask people to head home; he was doing his best to tune out this fucking rah-rah Penguins bullshit. He stayed down and blocked everything out until his brain slowly realized that the noise had stopped, the locker room was quiet. It was over. He glanced up to see most everyone gone. The Penguins captain and his alternates - Crosby, Malkin, Kunitz - were the exceptions, sitting at their lockers and regarding him with bemusement. Then became aware of two feet near his shoulder, standing over him. Raising his eyes, he saw it was Hornqvist. His suit jacket and shirt was off and he was fucking ripped. He had a feral grin on his face, directed at Brandon. The whole picture came together to make Brandon very, very uncomfortable.

"But I'm done," he protested, sensing something was about to go down. "I did what you asked. I'm finished!"

"We have three hours," came the reply from Crosby, drawled out slowly, like he was savoring the words. His tone had a note of delight, and something was back in Dubinsky's stomach. Not rage, this time. Fear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mostly written up the next installment of the series (Caps / Pens Payment). That one is going to be generally consensual and deals with some fall out surrounding these events. I'm excited to share it with you soon!
> 
> As for this chapter, it is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC RAPE SCENES. It's not alluded to off-screen. It's not summarized in a paragraph or two. It's not the kind of trope where the non-con party ends up liking it in the end (experiencing orgasm does not mean liking it), nor does it turn into hurt / comfort. This is not going to be everyone's cup of tea, and that's totally cool. If it's not, I hope you will consider the last chapter as being "the end" of your story, and stay with me to the next round of the Pens 2017 playoff run, where all sex will be consensual.

"No - " he protested as Hornqvist hauled him to his feet, nearly tripping over his own pants, still pooled around his ankles.

"You fucked up," Patric hissed, the savage smile never leaving his face. Kunitz was now screwing around with something; Brandon recognized it as a speaker. Music came blaring out a second later, old Metallica, something screamy. This is to block _my_ screams, Brandon realized, the pit of fear in his stomach blooming into terror spreading throughout his body. He glanced back at Crosby. Surely he didn't - couldn't - endorse these things? Captain Canada? The poster boy for PR?

Sid said something to Kunitz, and the music was turned down. "Just for a minute, while we talk," Crosby told Chris, who nodded.

"Please - I'm sorry, Sid. I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone. I mean - I mean, we got into plenty of battles together, right? That's just hockey. We're both passionate, hard players and - please, don't. Please reconsider whatever it is you're thinking of doing. It doesn't have to happen. I'm humiliated enough." Brandon was aware he was talking faster and faster as Crosby approached, his hands clasping as if to plead. So this is what it came down to. "Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want to see?"

He was not encouraged by the look in Crosby's eyes. Gone was the soft smiles of the Penguins captain to his team. His smile instead was hard, dangerous, with a look in his eyes that Dubi had occasionally seen on the ice, directed towards him. "Oh, you're going to beg," Crosby agreed, and suddenly his hands were grabbed and pulled roughly behind him. Hornqvist had his hands together despite the fight he was putting up, and Malkin had somehow moved from his locker to stand behind him as well, looping rope, or twine, or something around his hands to bind them together. "Not too tight, boys. I like to watch him struggle."

Fuck fuck fuck FUCK! "No!" he yelled, knocking himself into bodies that held him tight as he twisted, tried everything to get away. And now Kunitz was approaching with - something -...what?

Scissors. Heavy duty industrial scissors. Oh god. "Nothing permanent! No scars! You can't - "

"Relax, fuckface," Chris snarled. "I'm not going to cut you. On purpose, anyway. You keep struggling, that might happen regardless, so stop wiggling for one fuckin' second." He stepped up and grabbed the hem of Brandon's shirt, and began cutting up. Dubinsky vaguely became aware of Malkin untying his shoes, and Hornqvist replicating the cutting, except this time with his pants. They were getting him naked.

Brandon wanted nothing more than to struggle. But the shears were sharp, meant to cut through a lot worse than flesh, so he stayed still, trembling, breath coming in harsh waves. Up until this moment he had believed that Crosby was just going to beat the shit out of him. But, now...he still held out hope. Maybe Sid wanted to beat him up while he was at his most vulnerable - naked? He knew it was grasping at straws. But he wanted to believe.

His suit was stripped away from him, his shoes and socks cast aside. Finally, he stood in front of the four Penguins, naked, hands bound behind his back. He was terrified - but stared defiantly into Crosby's eyes, who had been watching the whole time from a few steps back as his lieutenants did the dirty work. Scared or not, he was determined to not give Crosby the satisfaction of seeing him broken. Perhaps this is all a bluff.

"Tiny dick," Geno noted with some smugness, and Brandon blew air from his nose, hard. That wasn't really true at all - just Malkin being a giant asshole. Not surprising.

"You would be looking at my dick, pervert," Dubinsky shot back. "What now, huh, boys? Here I am. You fags just going to stare at me some more?"

Crosby's eyes narrowed at his word choice, and he gave a nod. Immediately, the three Penguins - minus Crosby - sprang into action. Patric and Evgeni stalked over, carefully going around the Penguins logo on the floor, grabbing Brandon and dragging him over to the stalls. He tripped and fell, not able to keep up with the yanking, and yelped as he landed on his sensitive ass. They pulled him the last few feet across the carpet which burned his already-raw flesh, heard himself muttering 'no' and 'stop', to no avail. The music cranked up - Kunitz's doing - and Dubi saw where they were headed. Crosby's stall. He was shoved face first into the wood paneling and then forced to his knees by rough hands, which held him down despite his struggles.

CRACK. Brandon screamed, his struggles temporarily abating, as the paddle smacked down again. That little smack Crosby had given him in front of the team was an act. Here, he showed his true power. He heard the paddle thunk to the floor and suddenly there was a heavy weight on his back, buttons of a dress shirt digging in to his spine, suit jacket tickling his sides, rough hands in his hair and lips against his ear. They were soft, hot breath against his earlobe, but the words pouring forth were anything but gentle.

"You're the biggest piece of shit in this league," Crosby hissed, "And that's saying something. I never want you to forget this day. Never forget your place. When you're playing against us, you will act like a fucking gentleman instead of a goddamn savage. Obviously, nobody has taught you manners - that ends today. Right here." Brandon growled, attempted to buck Crosby off, but someone was still holding his shoulders down, another on his feet. All he ended up doing was grinding back into Crosby, and he noted with some horror that there was something hard pressed against his lower back.

"Don't," was the only thing he could choke out, stiffening when he felt a finger on his ass, sliding towards his opening. The skin burned as the finger moved across the flesh.

"You _really_ don't want to squirm here, buddy," Crosby murmured, still on top of him. One hand was still clutched in Dubi's hair and he curled the other around his chin, his playoff beard. "Stay still. It'll go better for you." So it wasn't Crosby who was back there.

"Lucky," Malkin intoned - was he the one touching him? "I would not give no lube. Fuck you dry."

"I'm a little nicer than Geno," Sid whispered, grinding his hard cock into the small of Brandon's back as someone's fingers probed his opening, cold and wet. Dubinsky jerked his face out of Crosby's grasp in surprise. It was lube. He felt sickening relief that he was being afforded that decency.

Brandon bit back a keening noise as the fingertip slipped inside him, rocking his face back and forth against the wood panel of the stall. He could almost concentrate on the rocking, the grain of the wood rough against his cheek. It gave him something else to focus on, something to distract him from the finger thrusting slowly inside of him.

"You like that? ... _fag_?" Kunitz. Dubinsky said nothing.

Brandon continued to rock his face back and forth as a second finger was added. "You're lucky," Crosby told him, licking his ear, which he shuddered away from. "Horny is taking very good care of you. I don't want you ripped open or needing to go to the hospital. We're not monsters -"

"You _are_ monsters," Brandon interjected, seething now, the protestation from Crosby raising his hackles. He raised his head from the cool wooden stall to stare at Crosby, teeth bared. "You think normal people would be doing this? You think rape is justifiable?"

"You did this to yourself. Just remember that."

"I - " Dubinsky opened his mouth for a retort, but then Hornqvist hit his prostate and he gasped, shakily, and shut up. There was a chuckle from Sid, a twist of his mouth in a smirk as Dubinsky flushed red, mortified. He wanted no impressions that he might be enjoying this. 

"He likes," Malkin crowed, from where he was holding Brandon's legs down. "I knew it."

Another stifled noise escaped him as Hornqvist curled his finger against his prostate. Again, a mental note for later - Patric seemed to know exactly what he was doing, how to make an man writhe and pant, which meant only one thing, that he'd done this before. How many times? Were they all like Brandon, held down and unwilling? "He's just about ready for you, Sid," Hornqvist said, alternating between finger fucking him and curling at his prostate, until Dubi was squirming against the stall, half hard, hot tears threatening to fall. Why was his body betraying him like this?

Sid lifted off him as Malkin and Kunitz returned to keep him pressed firmly down. Glancing back, he saw Crosby undoing his belt, yanking down his zipper but staying fully clothed otherwise, as if Brandon weren't worth the time to get completely naked. He popped out of the undone fly, and he was hard - his thick cock rising out of the well-manicured suit. Brandon felt another jolt of terror at the sight, and heard himself start to yammer. "There's still time. Still time not to do this, to not be a rapist, to be a good man - "

"A _good man?!"_ Rough hands grasped his hips and yanked him standing, his head smacking into the back of the stall next to Crosby's equipment. "I am not a good man to my enemies."

It was true. The head of Crosby's cock seated against him for just a moment before he pushed, hard, steady, and Brandon was howling, crying, pleading for mercy, a steady string of curse words dropping from his mouth until a hand clamped over his mouth to shut him up. Then Crosby was fully inside with a satisfied moan and a guttural "fuck" and the sensation was indescribable, burning, terrible, filling him up like he'd never experienced or even thought about before. He choked against the hand covering his mouth. Even with lube, it was a spike of pain every time Crosby shifted his hips.

He had just a second before Crosby started to move, and Dubinsky bit the palm of the hand covering his mouth. "Ow!" someone yelped - Malkin, he thinks - and suddenly his head was slammed into the wooden stall in response. Stars explode behind his eyes and something was thrown over his face, his mouth being forced open and something stuffed inside. He realizes with a resigned horror that it is Crosby's old, disgusting jock strap, and he is warned: "If you rip that, I will fucking destroy you."

Worse than he is now? Brandon thought, being rocked back and forth by the steady, hard thrusts, trying to bite back the whimpers that are escaping his mouth and around the jock strap. His shoulders strained as the bound arms behind him begin to ache, especially as Crosby starts to use them for leverage to thrust. He tries to block out the world, losing himself in a protected part of his brain, where he can ignore Sidney growling about how he's a little bitch, he needs to be taught a lesson in manners. He tries, but it's hard.

Just when he thinks it can get no worse, Crosby slows down and re-positions, angling himself to hit - 

Ohhh god. The prostate. Now Crosby is gently, almost lovingly, thrusting just enough to rub the prostate every time, and it's maddening, and despite what is happening it is a bright, intense flash of pleasure surrounding by the pain and shame, and he makes a dismayed moan when he realizes his cock is hardening again, shaking his head feverishly.

"You like that," Crosby purrs, and it's not a question, and his hand circles Brandon's cock and starts stroking. "Who's the fag now? You love this. You're going to come from another man fucking your ass. I own you, _Dubi."_

He spits out the other man's nickname like it's poison, and with rising panic, Dubinsky realizes he's right, that between the prostate and the stroking, he's close. The fear in the pit of his stomach is now accompanied by a burning wave of heat, a coil needing to snap. How can this be - he's not enjoying this, why is this even _possible..._

He tries to twist away, tears running down his face now as he realizes Crosby planned to do this all along, to complete his humiliation. His twists only serve to grind into Crosby's hand, which does not help the situation, and Crosby reaches down to roll his balls between his fingers for a moment before coming back up, more firm strokes. Then he does come, with a loud whine, the equipment and stall in front of him blurring through his tears as he shudders and groans with the release. He notes with a twinge of satisfaction that he must have come on some of Crosby's equipment, although he still can't see. Crosby waits for his shudders to subside, his shoulders to droop, then he drops his cock and grabs his hips, and slams into him, over and over. No more gentle thrusts compelling him to get off. Now it's all about power, and domination. Little whimpers and grunts escape him with each thrust even though he tries to bite them back, tries to keep quiet, not wanting to give the Penguins captain the honor of hearing him moan.

"Turn him," Crosby instructs, pulling out, his voice rough and deep. Someone yanks the jock strap from his mouth and he's flipped around, pushed to the floor in a sitting position, Crosby's teammates keeping him down. Dubinsky watches as Sidney huffs, fist flying as he jerks himself off, and it isn't long before he's coming, on Brandon's face, hair, and neck. He tries to twist away but the other Penguins keep him contained, Kunitz yanking his jaw open like some porn star, spitting and sputtering when some lands in his open mouth. He feels something dripping down his cheek and he's not sure if it's his tears or Sid's come.

"Fuck, you look amazing," Crosby moans, fist slowly coming to a stop. "If you could only see yourself. Hair mussed up, face red with tears, and my come all over your face. I almost want to take a picture. But that would be taboo, wouldn't it." No photographic evidence of The Payment. Brandon sniffles, staring at the floor, ready for this to be over. He's released, but he doesn't move, curled in on himself on the floor in front of Sid's stall. Numb. He'd sob if he weren't so numb, but he is, and he's thankful for it at this moment.

Malkin chuckles. "I think we broke him."

Brandon is just lifting his chin at the insult, to say - what? No, I'm not broken, he'd say, fuck you, maybe that too, but then suddenly Sid is kneeling, crushing his mouth to Brandon's in a kiss, violating him again with his tongue in his mouth. Dubinsky puts up no resistance - what's the point, now? - just lets the other man kiss him, fingers raking through his beard. Crosby's mouth is rough and hot and very unlike a woman's, and when he pulls back his lip is bleeding. Brandon had been biting down without realizing it. Good. Fuck him.

He must be snarling, because Crosby looks delighted at the reaction. "One to remember me by," he explains. "Don't forget, unless you want to do this again. But maybe you do...?" He winks. Stands. Nods to his teammates. "Get him some clothes. And cut him free."

A moment passes and Kunitz returns with the scissors, yanking him to his feet and clipping his bonds away. Brandon rubs his wrists, raw and red, and sways uncertainly while Malkin stalks over and and unceremoniously dumps clothes on the floor in front of him. His dress shoes, yes, but not his ripped suit. Instead, as insult to injury, it's Penguins gear. Sweatpants and a t-shirt, all adorned with the logo. He does not want to put it on, but he has no other choice, unless he wants to be naked. He catches sight of Crosby's face as he's pulling the clothes on, a dangerous and hungry look that he doesn't know how to process, so he shoves it in the back corner of his mind, turns away from the gaze.

Hornqvist is digging through his ripped suit pants and throws him his wallet. "Get the fuck out," he instructs. "Your team has a cab waiting to pick you up."

"You might want to wipe face," Malkin suggests mildly. "Would be real scandal to be seen like this."

He manages to snag a Kleenex or two from a box sitting near the door, wiping his face as Kunitz yells goodbye in a sing-song voice. Numb. Brandon Dubinsky is numb.

"Maybe we'll do this next year." Crosby.

Brandon has one foot out the door, and he knows he should just leave. Just get out. But he can't, not after that comment. He turns back before the locker room door shuts, eyes blazing, the humiliated bow of his head replaced by a fury he has never felt before. It scares him, but that is not a bad thing right now. "We will do this next year," Brandon snarls, "And it will be you on that floor, begging for mercy."

He allows the door to swing shut. Malkin, Kunitz, and Hornqvist are laughing, but Crosby - he just smirks, and calls out, "I'll expect no mercy, then." His grin is the last thing Brandon Dubinsky sees before the door closes. And he knows it will be what he sees every day before he can have his revenge.


End file.
